Page 29 of Meow

Finally, he nods. "Compromise. You keep your phone on you and I get to have a tracker. Kitten, I can’t breathe thinking you’d be out there without me first of all, and if you were and something happened, and I couldn’t find you? Sorry, no option, that’s the final word."

"Deal." I seal it with a kiss, gentler than before.

As we disentangle ourselves to enter my house, cat food and scratching post in tow, I realize I've just agreed to marry the most dangerous man in Detroit.

And I couldn't be happier.

Chapter Nine

Tabby

Six months after our dumpster diving confrontation, I'm sprawled across Duffield's massive chest, admiring the crescents my nails left during last night's activities. He wears my marks like badges of honor—each scratch and bite a reminder that he may own this penthouse, but I own him.

"Morning, little kitty," he rumbles, voice still thick with sleep. His fingers trace my spine, lingering at the small of my back. “How’s our little one feeling this morning?”

I stretch against him, purposely digging my knees into his ribs. "Morning, big dog. Baby is fine, I still haven’t felt any movement but Dr. Traverse said that’s normal for being three months along."

“Okay, but don’t ever cancel an appointment with him again. Hard line. Do not cross. I moved him here to Detroit from Texas just to take care of you until the baby is born. He’s the best and you will keep every appointment. Understand?”

I shake my head, batting at the meaty finger he’s pointing at my nose.

He grunts but doesn't complain. Progress. The man who once threatened dumpster divers now tolerates my sharp edges—even seems to crave them.

"Stop plotting," he murmurs against my hair as he kisses the top of my head.

"I never plot." I nip his pectoral. "I pounce."

To demonstrate, I slide down his body in one fluid motion, dragging my tongue along the ridged muscles of his stomach. His breath catches when I reach my destination, his massive hands fisting in the sheets rather than my hair—another compromise we've reached. He doesn't grab; I don't scratch. At least not there.

"Fuck, Tabby." His hips rise as I take him between my lips, savoring his hardness and the way he surrenders to me despite his strength. But, to my surprise, he pulls my head upward until I release him with a pop. "Later. We have plans today."

His groan of frustration fills me with satisfaction as I bound from the bed, still naked, tail swinging behind me. I never take it off except to clean it—my constant reminder of our first day together.

"Evil woman." He props himself on his elbows, watching me saunter toward the bathroom.

"You love it." I blow him a kiss before disappearing to shower.

When I emerge, wrapped in a towel with my pink hair dripping, Duffield is on the phone—his business voice in full effect.

"I don't care how he feels about it. Either he accepts our terms, or he deals with the consequences." He pauses, noticing me. Something shifts in his expression—softening even as hiswords remain steel. "Handle it. I have more important matters today."

He ends the call, tossing the phone aside with practiced indifference. "Ready for your surprise?"

"What surprise?" I drop my towel deliberately, enjoying how his eyes darken.

"Get dressed, troublemaker." He smacks my ass as he passes to take his own shower. "Ingrid's meeting us there."

Ingrid. The sister. We've developed an uneasy truce these past months—her initial hostility gradually giving way to reluctant respect after I stood my ground during one of her intimidation attempts.

"You know he'll tire of the cat thing eventually," she'd said, examining her perfect manicure.

I'd just smiled. "I'm not worried."

"No? Why's that?"

"Because I've already made him my pet." I'd shown her the scratch marks down his back from the night before.

She'd stared for three heartbeats before erupting in genuine laughter—a sound that transformed her sharp features into something almost sweet.

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